Ulterior Motives
by bethos
Summary: Giles knows someone. Someone who could help in the battle against the First. He really could.
1. Functional Plan

Title: Ulterior Motives 

Author: Apocalypse, the Slasher of the ;-)

Summary: Giles knows someone. Someone who could help in the battle against the First. He really could.

Rating: R (Eventually)

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine; they belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I merely steal them now and again to do naughty, naughty things to them. Mmm, yeah.

Warnings: Slash. And sex ... a touch of sadomasochism ...

Pairing: Giles/Ethan. Oh yes.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Giles couldn't decide whether or not to appreciate the aptness of the weather. The idea of working inside a cliche didn't appeal, but there was a certain poetic justice to it.

Then again, it wasn't much fun to drive through.

The rented Jeep's headlights cut through the sheet-like rain. The rain fell differently here. It wasn't the spattering rain you got in Sunnydale, or the prickly downpour of the Pacific Northwest, or the heavy, acidic stuff that knifed into you on the Eastern seaboard of the United States; it wasn't the friendly, constant murky drizzle that was so popular in the British Isles. It fell like sheets, like torrents, like the deluge.

He drove slowly. There would be no sense in dying in some absurd car accident before the evening's work was finished. He almost missed the turnoff, and he might have if he had not known exactly what he was looking for; he turned onto the unmarked road and drove down it until he came across the secret facility. The building complex was modern and fairly well-lit but not well-marked and it was behind a heavy metal gate.

Giles pulled up to the security booth in front of the gate and rolled down the window of the rental Jeep. The interior would get completely soaked, but that was probably par for the course around here.

The security man shined his flashlight into the driver's side window. Giles flinched at the sudden brightness.

"Fucking weather," said the security guard. His accent placed him firmly within the continental United States, possibly the South, although ... hmm. Maybe Maryland? Giles wasn't sure. It wasn't important.

"Absolutely," Giles answered.

"Crazy. Have you got clearance?"

"Here it is," said Giles, handing over the laminated card. It was forged, of course, but he had a man on the inside.

The security guard squinted at the laminated rectangle illuminated by his flashlight. "Mr. Hammer?" he said.

"Yeah?" said Giles.

"You a Brit?" he asked, peering through the rain at him.

Giles blinked. What in blazes did that have to do with anything? More to the point, was the man deaf? It wasn't as though he'd gone to any great lengths to hide his accent ... "Yes, I am," he said.

"That's all right," said the security guard. "I've known some good Brits."

"Really," Giles said flatly, as the rain poured through the open window into his rented Jeep.

The security man seemed to figure out that Giles was in no mood for small talk. "Okay, Mr. Hammer," he said, "you go on in." He touched a few keys on the control pad in his booth and the metal gates swung open with a loud C-R-E-A-K.

"Thank you," Giles answered. He rolled up the window of the Jeep and drove into the broad expanse of soggy asphalt that passed for the building's parking lot.

He parked as close to the front doors of the building as he could get. Too bad he didn't have an umbrella, but he hadn't thought to bring one with him to the airport.

He hurried across the parking lot and opened the thankfully unlocked doors of the building. Once inside the glossed grey lobby, soaking wet through his heavy black trench coat and respectable tweed suit, he glanced around, getting his bearings. He hadn't had time to change out of the suit into something more suitable; the intervening moments between receiving his call from Peters, his contact down here, and getting in his car for the trip to the airport, had been negligible.

"Have clearance?" asked the gruff security man behind the front desk.

"Awfully foolish to come through the front door otherwise," Giles said, his tone amiable but laced with mild sarcasm. He handed over the laminated card.

"Just have to check," said the man behind the desk, with a smile. He handed back the card, having barely glanced at it.

"Of course," said Giles, sliding the card back into his wallet.

It was amazing how lax security had become. Giles could hardly believe it could be this easy. True, the timing couldn't be better - 7 PM on a Thursday, a little more than halfway through the shift for these security men - but he had had no idea how accurate the information his contact had been able to provide was. Now he knew. There were efficient-looking men with wicked-looking weapons all over the bloody place and all he had to do was waltz in like he actually belonged here and there was absolutely no trouble ...

"All right, Hammer," said the man, "what can I help you with?"

"I've got a release for one of the inmates here," Giles answered crisply. "Transferring him to another facility."

"Really? I wasn't informed," said the security man, frowning.

"Those are my orders," Giles said with a shrug. "I didn't write them." Which was actually quite true, he reflected. He hadn't written them. He'd just made them up. Now it was time to see if his man Peters had been able to come through ...

"Yeah, I hear you," said the man. "Hang on, just let me check with my --"

Suddenly, a light lit up on the board on the security man's desk. The man frowned at it and flipped a switch by it; a corresponding red light appeared on the headset he wore.

"Front desk," he said. "Walters speaking. Oh, hi Peters. Orders from Gomez? Shoot." The man listened for a moment, surprise reflecting on his badly-shaven face. "Absolutely," he said finally. "Yeah, Hammer's here. He's right on time." Pause. "No, he hasn't ... just about to give it to me, though. What? Why? ... Adams, you say? Adams is the clearance man on this guy? Yeah. Okay, good. I'll see if he's got it. See ya, Peters." He flipped off his headset and glanced up at Giles. "Right on time," he repeated, dryly. "Care to show me those papers?"

Giles handed him the paperwork. It was slightly damp from traveling in the inside pocket of his trenchcoat, but the envelope had managed to protect it from the elements fairly well. Walters scanned the paperwork quickly, checking for signatures.

"What's the name of the place he's being transferred to?" asked the man, squinting at the sheaf of papers.

"The R. Giles Witchcraft Observation Center," Giles answered promptly. "In Sunnydale." All true. Well, in a way ...

"California?" Walters asked.

"Yes," Giles said, trying not to let his sudden worry show. Why would Sunnydale ring a bell? ... apart from the obvious. Well, maybe Sunnydale didn't need an apart from the obvious.

"I was in California once," Walters said wistfully. "Visiting my sister, in L.A. Lots of sun up there. You from California?"

Giles stared. What was this, idiot night? "I'm English," he managed finally.

"Oh, right," said Walters, scratching his neck. "I should've guessed from the accent. Well, everything seems to be in order. You've got Dr. Adams's signature. That's what Peters said you needed, so ... I'll have Renhada escort you back there."

"Thank you," said Giles.


	2. The Rescue

Rupert Giles was led to the glass cage. It probably wasn't made of just glass, but it was clear, and Giles wasn't otherwise interested in its composition. Renhada opened the door to the glass cage with jailer's keys. Evidently he wasn't overly concerned with the escape of a prisoner who was strapped down, attached to an IV and apparently asleep.  
  
Giles smiled inwardly. They were underestimating him.   
  
Renhada left, heading back for his post. There was another guard standing in front of the open door to the glass cage, holding a threatening-looking semi-automatic.  
  
There was a fresh cigarette tucked behind his ear.  
  
"You want a smoke break?" Giles asked quietly.  
  
The guard didn't answer, just stood there and gave him a blank look.  
  
"Habla ingles?" Giles asked.  
  
The guard grinned. "No problem," he said, his accent thick and heavy but intelligible. They'd hire natives, but they had to be able to understand what they were saying.  
  
"I'll give you a light," Giles said. "Here."  
  
He handed the guard a small green cigarette lighter he'd picked up at the airport, with a twenty dollar bill wrapped around it.  
  
The guard grinned even broader. "Hey," he said, "no problem ..."  
  
Alone, Giles stepped into the darkened glass cage. The figure inside was prostrate, on an uncomfortable-looking pallet. He was hooked up to an IV, strapped tightly to the cot, and quite naked. He looked both very pale and somewhat bruised, although not entirely unhealthy otherwise. The bodies of the inmates would be kept in good physical condition for the purposes of experimentation. That was just good logical scientific process, not compassion.  
  
His insidious beauty was still present. Stronger, perhaps, than ever, as he lay there, asleep. Helpless. Vulnerable. Even if Giles hadn't had other, more noble motivations, the man's beauty would have been ample enough motivation for what he was now doing.  
  
Annoyed by the unexpected tenderness, Giles knelt beside the prone figure and began to roughly rip away the strips, his ahnds brushing lightly against the sleeping man's exposed flesh.  
  
"Hello, Ripper," Ethan Rayne murmured, without opening his eyes. He smiled lazily as Giles froze. "Oh ... don't stop."  
  
Insufferable flirt.  
  
"Do be quiet," Giles said.   
  
"I thought you liked listening to me talk," Ethan said wryly. "The sound of my voice ... as we ..."  
  
"Shut *up*, Ethan," Giles growled, "I've got to get you out of here. Are you going to make me resort to violence?"  
  
"Promises, promises," Ethan said, cracking open an eye. But he did shut up, until Giles finished unstrapping him from the bed, and carefully removed the IV from his arm.  
  
"Can you walk?" Giles asked.  
  
"I ..." Ethan said, and Giles stood, pulling him to his feet. He took a step, with Giles at his side, and then another, across the glass cage. "Yes." He glanced down at himself, amusement reflecting in his expression.   
  
Giles followed his gaze and then pulled his look back up to Ethan's face. "You could use some sun," he remarked.  
  
"I could use some clothing," Ethan returned, his voice dripping with sarcasm.  
  
"Oh, right," Giles said. He shrugged out of his soggy coat and slid it over Ethan's shoulders. "Better?"  
  
Ethan gave him an affronted look as he shoved his arms through the sleeves. "It's all wet," he pointed out.  
  
"Stop complaining," Giles grunted. "I didn't have to do this, you know. Come on." He grabbed Ethan roughly by the arm and started to pull him out of the cage.  
  
"Let me close the bloody thing," Ethan protested, fumbling to shut the buttons of Giles's coat as he was dragged along.  
  
Giles rolled his eyes and let go of him to fold his arms over his chest. "Hurry up," he said.  
  
He watched as Ethan's trembling, fumbling fingers messed with the buttons until he finally started fastening the coat shut for him instead. "What did they have in your blood, Ethan?" he asked softly.  
  
Ethan glanced up at him, as though surprised by the tone of voice. "I don't know," he admitted. "Something to keep me ... subdued. I don't know what else they were testing. Also, nourishment. Easier than actually feeding me."  
  
"Hmm," said Giles, closing the last fastener on the trenchcoat. "All right. Let's go." He took Ethan's arm again and started to drag him along ... but it was quickly clear that this wasn't going to work. "All right, Ethan," he said quietly, "lean on me as we go."  
  
"Thank you, Ripper," Ethan said, his voice soft as he delicately emphasized the old, familiar nickname. No sarcasm, no embittered lashing of the tongue, no anger at being abandoned, none of the desperate jealous anxiety of an old love gone sour, gone away: just simple gratitude. Giles suspected that it'd be rare, these days.  
  
"Well, we'll never get out of here if we go at a snail's pace," Giles answered gruffly.  
  
And had it gone away? Giles didn't want to think about it.   
  
Ethan Rayne didn't weigh as much as Giles remembered. He was lean and underfed, very pale from lack of sun during his time in the cage, and although there was still some muscle to his rangy frame, some wire to his leanness, he was still in a bad way. Still beautiful, though. Still his beautiful, sensual, a touch fiery but always submissive Ethan ... still his lover, no matter how much water had passed under the bridge since then. Both of them had changed a lot. But both of them had also stayed the same.  
  
The guard came back from his cigarette break to see them going down the hall, back the way they'd come. "Hey," he said, "I'll show you the way back."  
  
"Thank you," Giles said.  
  
"Hey," the guard said, grinning happily, "you're all right, man."  
  
Ethan shot Giles a quizzical look, which he ignored as the guard led them back to the front door.  
  
"One last thing," Giles murmured, his lips and tongue close enough to taste Ethan's ear.  
  
"Hmm?" Ethan asked.  
  
Giles whipped the handcuffs out of his vest-pocket and snapped them around Ethan's wrists. "That," he said, as they followed the guard with his big semi-automatic.  
  
Ethan grinned. "Why, Ripper ..." he murmured back, "how ... playful ..."  
  
Giles smiled grimly. "It's the look of the thing, you."  
  
"Of course, of course," Ethan said. "How ... silly of me." His eyes gleamed.  
  
It was good to see some of the old Ethan back, that his essential obnoxious Ethanness survived even ravaged as he was by his time in the glass cage.  
  
Ethan was obediently cowed and silent as they went past the security man at the front desk and out into the rain. Then they were alone, and Ethan Rayne took a deep breath of the rainy air.  
  
Giles gave him a moment to enjoy his freedom. He'd been locked away in there for a *very* long time.  
  
"Ripper, old friend," Ethan murmured. "It's a dark and stormy night."  
  
"Is it?"   
  
Then, after a long silence as they stood, soaking together in the pouring rain of the southern hemisphere, Ethan said, his voice very soft, with no touch of joking to it: "I didn't think you'd come."  
  
Giles thought of all sorts of things that he could say, about needing his old ... friend ... to help fight the worst evil that his Slayer and her friends had ever faced ...   
  
And he thought of things he could say about not being able to leave him in there to rot, not after everything, not even after all of the stupid, bastardly things Ethan had done to spite him in Sunnydale, all of the insane jealousy, all of the bitter remembrances, all of the yearning ...   
  
And finally all he said was, in a voice of quiet sincerity, "I didn't have a choice." 


	3. Suitable Accommodations

A/N: Look, an update! Bet you thought I'd never update. But here's one, in which Giles makes use of handcuffs and Ethan, uh, bitches about soap.

* * *

Rupert Giles drove like a man preoccupied; in other words, like a maniac. 

As the rented Jeep sped along the drenched roads towards the airport that would get Giles and his new charge out of South America and back towards the States, the librarian wondered not for the first time how he was going to excuse this to the Slayer and company … or if there was a way the confrontation could be avoided completely.

One thing that was absolutely necessary, though, before they reached the airport, would be to find Ethan some … trousers.

Anything he bought here would be disgustingly overpriced, but then again, it would be difficult to smuggle a half-naked man into or out of anywhere without attracting unwanted questions. And he'd guessed from the beginning that this little excursion was going to be less than cheap. It was burning a hole into his bank account, but it would be worth it.

Assuming Giles managed to get Ethan out of the country without strangling him first …

"Would you stop that confounded humming?" Giles snapped, glancing at the irritating man in the passenger's seat.

"Ah, good," said Ethan Rayne, too cheerfully. "You're still with me. I was beginning to wonder."

Giles glared at him for a moment, and then narrowly avoided rear-ending a semi.

"Whoops," said Ethan.

The librarian gritted his teeth and passed the enormous truck, ignoring the fact that had there been oncoming traffic in the lane designated for it, he and his companion would have been roadkill.

"What _are_ you doing?" Ethan asked, as though it were only a matter of casual interest.

"Looking for an …" Giles peered out into the darkness, trying to see past the limits of his headlights.

Ethan waited, and when it was an apparent that the end of the sentence wasn't forthcoming, he snorted derisively and said, "Ah, suspense."

"What?" Giles said, not really paying attention as he turned onto a side road and bumped toward what looked like the lights of a very small city.

Ethan rolled his eyes and looked out the window.

Giles wondered aloud what the speed limit was supposed to be around here as he sent waves from either side of the car.

Ethan didn't comment. Possibly, it was just as well.

"I thought I asked you to stop humming," Giles growled as the signs of civilization hurtled toward them.

"Was I humming?" Ethan asked, all innocence.

"It certainly sounded like you," Giles said.

"Hmm," Ethan said. "Funny."

Giles pulled into the parking lot of a tiny, seedy-looking little inn.

Ethan looked out the window at it with distaste. "What's that?" he said.

"I thought you would be able to identify a motel, a worldly fellow like you," Giles answered.

"Can't you find anything a little classier?" Ethan asked plaintively.

Instead of answering, Giles reached across Ethan and began rummaging around in the glove compartment. Having found what he was looking for, he quickly snatched the other man's wrist and handcuffed him to the inside door of the rented Jeep.

Ethan flashed him a grin, alight with mischief and pleased surprise. "Why, Ripper …" he said, his voice a caress of sensuality. "You came prepared …"

Giles smiled tightly. "Stay right there." As though Ethan had much choice in the matter, but that was beside the point. "I'll be right back," he said.

"I'm aquiver with anticipation," Ethan called after him as he slammed the door behind him and stalked toward the front entrance of the little motel.

"What is that from?" he wondered to himself as he entered the shabby lobby.

The boy behind the front desk was thin and gangly with a shock of tight black curls and very dark skin. He smiled in flash of pure white as Giles approached the desk and was only too happy to run an authorization on Giles's trusty Visa-card and check him into "the finest room in the house". He also gave directions, to be followed in the morning, to the nearest department store – some ten miles down the road in a patch of modernity surrounded by thick, lush South American forestry.

Nor did he bat an eyelash when Giles stopped halfway through the lobby and exclaimed, "_Rocky Horror Picture Show_."

The boy made no particular comment when Giles returned a few minutes later with the partially-dressed Ethan in tow, nor did he seem bothered by the glint of metal around Ethan's wrist that was visible despite Giles's attempts to keep it surreptitious … clearly, working in a cheap motel in the middle of nowhere was a job that taught the young the kind of discretion that Giles had found somewhat wanting throughout his time in America.

The room was only marginally less vile than Giles was expecting. There was only one bed in it, but it couldn't be helped. There were probably rats and the sheets probably hadn't been changed in awhile, but there was at least a bed. The toilet didn't work, but there was nothing wrong with the shower, and there were functional lavatories in the lobby – or so it looked. In any event, Rupert Giles was in no state to be picky.

Ethan professed distaste with everything with the exception of the company. As if he hadn't stayed in worse ratholes than this in his life; Giles suspected that he was just being difficult on general principles, and did his best to ignore him.

"There's a hair on this soap," Ethan said plaintively, reappearing from the bathroom clad only a towel. "Rupert, I'll put up with a lot of things for you but someone else's hair is on this soap."

"What?"

"The soap," Ethan said. "I would show it to you, but that would require my touching it."

"When did you get so squeamish?" Giles asked.

"Blood, I'll grant you," Ethan said dryly. "Etchings in skin, patterns made of human guts, desiccated corpses, arcane rituals of demon-summoning ... Rupert, for you I'll even eat Indian food. But I draw the line at bits of complete strangers' pubic hair on my soap."

"Open a new bar," Giles said, trying not to laugh.

Ethan rolled his eyes as though supplicating the heavens for patience, which was much higher than he usually tended to aim, and said, "If there was a new bar, I wouldn't have given the used, disgusting bar a second's thought …"

"Would you like to go back to your cell?"

Ethan looked a little hurt. "No," he said.

"Then stop complaining and let me sleep. I've got things to do in the morning," said Giles.

Ethan looked at the bed with distaste. "I think that mattress may be older than I am," he said. "Are you really going to sleep on it?"

"Ethan!"

"What?"

Giles sighed and put one of the bed's two pillows over his head. "Never mind," he said into it.

He had just dropped off when Ethan, still damp and hot from a scalding shower, climbed into bed with him. He could almost remember a time when this would have been the most natural thing in the world; the next steps would have been deliciously welcome, if only they hadn't progressed so far beyond that kind of trust.

Well, Giles had. Ethan was exhibiting insane amounts of trust in _him_, although Giles wasn't sure if it was only the appearance of trust, expertly counterfeited in order to put him off his guard …

"The television doesn't work," Ethan said, jarring Giles out of his thoughts and quite spoiling the moment.

"I'm sleeping," Giles said to the pillow on the end of a sigh.

"No, you're not," Ethan said. "And the television doesn't work."

"Spanish-language television, Ethan."

"I haven't watched television in a very long time. I don't think it'll matter what language it's in," Ethan said.

"You're right. It will be the same mindless drek you remember," Giles said. "Ethan, I'm trying to sleep."

"All right, all right," Ethan said, a touch grumpily. But he was mercifully silent for the rest of the night.

When Giles awoke in the morning, Ethan Rayne was curled up in the bed next to him sleeping like a baby. He was clutching the pillow instead of resting his head on it and he looked as though it was the first real sleep he'd had in a very, very long time.

Giles didn't wake him, although he did handcuff him to the bedpost. No matter his feelings – past or present – for Ethan, there was no reason to trust him … and he could imagine the grin on Ethan's face when he awoke and noticed the feel of metal against his skin …

Giles splashed tepid water on his face in the bathroom, wishing it was cold. But evidently cold water was too much to ask for. He didn't trust it enough to drink. Instead, he left the room, leaving Ethan sleeping inside.


End file.
